by Daniel Gibbs
A man armed with a pulse rifle met Euke. “You’re early.”
“Ease up.” An older, burlier man with a white beard elbowed aside the younger guard. “He’s new, Euke. Not used to your punctuality. But I see you got a new rider too.”
“Oswald’s out for a week, so I brought Jack along to learn the deal. He’ll go solo when needed.”
The old man nodded at Jack. “Come on over. You’ve got the goods?”
Euke unstrapped the bag from the back of his skimmer. He hefted it toward the middle barge. Jackson matched his ambling pace as he scanned everything he could see.
“Your wrist unit’s picking up good visual, Echo One,” Brant said. “Angle a bit toward the freighter—I want to see if we can get a registry ID, faked or not.”
Jackson did as asked, sweeping around by the barges to take sensor reads of them too. His wrist unit had decent sensitivity, however, couldn’t do as much as the handheld units Intelligence fielded. It was a tradeoff meant to reduce the risk of detection—hence why Jackson was only broadcasting basic video instead of a livestream of every byte he could record.
He was more concerned by a few of the twenty men in evidence around the field. Most were dressed in ill-fitting, dirty clothing, like the bearded guy and the young guard left back at the fence, and had a sloppy, careless manner about them—not watching all approaches, chatting too much. A handful, though, couldn’t hide their quiet watchfulness and their stolid manner, even though they wore the same clothes. Their posture was too good, their bearing too proud.
Jackson hooked his thumbs on his belt as Euke set the bag down and unsealed the top. He sent five taps using the transmitter.
“Copy. Five possible ESS or other League assets.” Brant grunted. “I see one of them. Didn’t let him out in the field with a bunch of covert training, did they?”
“Euke.” A tall, bald man of Scandinavian descent brought a small black box out of the barge. He towered over everyone else, a thick blond beard hiding most of his face.
He wasn’t one of the five Jackson had noted. As stern as his face was, his body language was languid. Still, Jackson made sure he was standing so his wrist unit recorded a clear image. He had a tiny tattoo on his left hand, behind the first knuckle—a red arrow, slanting up and to the right, with a cross for its left end. Twin dots speckled the cross.
“Checking for the symbol, though I’ve got a good hunch—yes. It’s the ancient alchemy symbol for iron. The Turkish word for iron is ‘demir.’ Word from the interrogations is Demir takes the Orbita and sells it on the street. The supplier gets a cut, and so do the delivery boys.”
The cartel then got the drug to market. It had to be the League supplying, same as they were sneaking it into the refugee camps.
But if Demir’s getting money back to the League, what’s it for? If it were me, Jackson pondered, I’d use it to fund whatever operation I was running. No strings.
“Evening, Arvid,” Euke said. “It’s all here.”
“Ja. I’m sure. I will count all the same. You will too.” Arvid held his palm atop the box.
The lid slid open. He handed it to Euke then knelt for the open bag so he could examine the contents. Orbita. Hundreds of pouches of tiny white tablets, microthin and wrapped in neat, twenty-dose batches.
Jackson pushed out of his mind how many people would be addicted. He wasn’t here to interdict, not yet. The goal was to trace the Orbita back to the supplier. One step at a time. It didn’t improve his mood any, so he forced himself to whistle and shake his head. “Talk about a score.”
Euke nodded. He mouthed numbers as he counted through the payment chits stacked in the bag. Jackson did too—forty chits. Euke pressed one. The number “500” glowed. He repeated the process for each one, fast but deliberate.
“I confirmed your cut is ten percent, split as your boss sees fit. Do you concur?”
“I concur.”
Jackson found it almost ridiculously formulaic, but then again, he wouldn’t begrudge a man of Arvid’s size any ceremony.
“But your parcel is short.”
The old man and young guard were back, their rifles raised. Arvid’s hand rested on the butt of a plasma pistol on his belt.
“Ah, Echo One? Sev’s telling me there’s movement at the freighter. Those five guys are taking a keen interest in your gathering. Get clear.”
Jackson quick-tapped his belt twice to signal everyone monitoring, Stand by. “Whoa, hey, what’s the problem? What’s he talking about, Euke?”
“I don’t understand. I counted before we left the garage.” Euke’s tone brooked no argument, and if he was scared, he didn’t let it show. “Three hundred sixty packets, banded in a dozen.”
“There’s three hundred thirty-six. One packet’s missing.” Arvid drew his pistol.
“Guys.” Jackson moved between them. “Let’s relax, okay? It’s gotta be a mistake.”
“Sev is locked on him. If things go wrong, he’s going to take the shot. Those are your orders.”
Dammit. Jackson pressed his hand to Euke’s shoulder. “Hey. What if they got dropped in the garage? We should go back and check. It’s got to be a mistake.”
“Or else someone is taking what isn’t theirs. I told Salvatore I wouldn’t abide pilfering. Once Demir makes a deal, we expect it to be adhered to—by all parties.” Arvid gestured with the gun.
His two guards took up positions to surround them.
“There’s no need. We can sort this out,” Euke said. “Let me contact Salvatore.”
“If anyone is going to contact Salvatore, it will be one of our people. And we’ll drag him back here if we need to.”
One of the five men jogged over. “What’s going on? Get him out of here.”
“There’s a discrepancy in the delivery.”
“Then sort it out later!” he hissed. “We’re transferring.”
And they were. Jackson could see a line of people being forced to walk from the freighter to a fourth barge, which he hadn’t spotted when they’d first approached. It was tucked around the back of a damaged hangar, visible through a gaping hole in the curved wall.
“Echo One, Deadeye is ready to execute. Do we have a green light? He can take all four of them.”
No. They would blow any chance of the operation succeeding. Jackson fixed the thought foremost in his mind because he could tell on further inspection that the people being herded weren’t adults. They were teenagers and younger.
He raised his hands, hoping to keep anyone from doing anything rash—he didn’t want Sev to fire, and he didn’t want any of these tense thugs doing likewise. He also hoped the wrist unit could get every pixel recorded from that range. “Let’s be fair about this. I’ll call Salvatore. Keep me here, and send Euke back. Send him with somebody if you need to. Treat me as collateral.”
Arvid considered the proposition. For a second, Jackson thought about giving the go signal. Clean shots. He could make a run for the skimmer, drag Euke along.
“Go,” Arvid said. “Hans, take Euke. Both skimmers. Make it clear his refusal to cooperate will cost him another courier, and this time, we won’t do him the courtesy of telling him where to find Jack, like we did Reese.”
Euke glanced at Jackson. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry about me.” Jackson smiled. “I’ll hang out here.”
“I don’t care who stays where, but it can’t be here,” the young man snarled. “Move it!” He stormed back to the freighter.
Arvid made a face in his wake but gestured for Hans—the bearded man—to escort Euke back to the skimmers.
“You, it seems, will have to trust your colleagues,” Arvid said.
“I’m a pretty trusting guy.” Jackson leaned against the barge, thinking, It’s up to them now.
“Shit!” Brant winced as soon as the word left his mouth. He glanced at the ceiling and made the sign of the cross. “Sorry. A plan’s not a plan until it survives first contact with disaster… Echo Three, this is Ec
ho Home.”
“Shoot, Echo Home. This is Echo Three. What’s all the commotion? Sev tells me two skimmers went a-hightailin’ it out of there—”
“There’s a barge around the hangars getting ready to launch. Once it does, follow in and report back.”
“Yeah, that’s my plan, but the cap’n—”
“Send out your drones. Have them ready to spark.”
“Understood.”
Brant heard the shuttle’s engines hum to life.
“Prayers for the cap’n. Echo Three out.”
You’re telling me. Brant switched channels. “Echo Four, this is Echo Home. Copy.”
“Over.” Sev sounded bored, like he was birdwatching. “Go.”
“Hold your position. The second Echo One gives us the signal—”
“Execute.”
“Roger that.”
“You?”
Brant sighed. “I’m calling Gina in.”
13
Kolossi
Aphendrika—Terran Coalition
22 July 2464
Gina Wilkes strolled up to the front of Salvatore’s Ground Effect Garage in the middle of the night as if she were ready for business.
The street was hardly deserted. Crowds of people, mostly young, wandered between bars and restaurants. Laughter echoed along the buildings, mingled with thumping music. Police drones flitted here and there, but by Gina’s eye, the only crime going on was public intoxication. She giggled, staggered, and bumped against the side of Salvatore’s front door.
The heavy barrier at the front of the shop was lowered. Skimmers for sale on the sidewalk had been stored in a neat row inside. Gina spoke into her comm as she leaned on the door, interspersing her slurred conversation with giggles. “But I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it! I know. I know! Be there next time, promise. Yes, I know…”
None of the passersby were focused—or sober—enough to pay attention, which she appreciated because she was running out of inane fake conversation by the time her lockbreaker flashed green. A series of buttons on the access panel clicked in the correct order, and the door popped open.
“Knock, knock,” Gina murmured.
No alarms triggered, either audible ones or those recorded on her wrist unit. Brant had been kind enough to tap into the building’s network to watch, but he hadn’t touched the security systems because he feared tipping off Salvatore. Gina wasn’t bothered. This was her specialty.
She eased inside, shedding her coat, revealing a skintight jumpsuit, black but for deep-violet tinges. The coat went under the folded signboard advertising fifteen percent off refurbished skimmers. She pulled a mask up and over her hair, which was secured in a tight bun, and down her face. The embedded sensors converted the darkened room into an amber backlit space, courtesy of the night vision setting.
“Echo Two, Echo Home. Switch your scanner over to ‘Narcotic.’ It’ll pick up the traces, same as Echo One’s device.”
Gina grimaced. How does Jack stand it, having someone mutter in his ear without being able to respond? That was why she didn’t let anyone but him stay on live comms with her unless they could have a two-way conversation. But she did as instructed. The device immediately pulsed against her skin as she swung her hand back and forth so it could ping any residual molecules of Orbita.
She swept her way across the garage, mindful of every piece of equipment, building a mental map forward and backward should she have to bolt. Gina opened a breaker box rimmed in red emergency markings and ran her finger down the panel, cutting the power.
Footsteps creaked upstairs. Gina froze. The owner’s apartment took up the second floor along with his offices. She checked her scanner. No indication of enough Orbita concentration for the two missing bundles to be down in the garage. They could have been lost outside, but given Salvatore’s record, it’s likely he pilfered and is willing to let the blame fall on his hapless employees. Which means the bundles are upstairs, in one place or another.
She needed Salvatore out of the apartment and absent from his offices, which meant she needed him downstairs—where she was.
Gina frowned. It’s never easy. She picked up a calibration tool from a workbench, held it at arm’s length, and let it fall to the concrete floor. The clang was as loud as a gunshot.
“Ah, you know I’m monitoring your audio, Echo Two? I heard that. Pretty sure half the block did too.”
She pressed the transmitter embedded in her sleeve to signal “Stand by.” Too bad there isn’t a sequence for “Shut up.”
Instead Gina padded across the floor to the racks bolted into the opposite wall, where the stairwell descended from upstairs. Salvatore’s thudding footsteps closed in. The second-floor door slammed open.
Gina pressed herself to the shelves. They were solid. She gave them a test shake. Only the barest shimmy.
“Who’s down there?”
She heard a switch flip right after his question, then Salvatore swore. The switch clicked a few more times.
“Damned lights gone out?”
“Negative on adequate traces,” Brant said. “You’ve got fifteen minutes until the two riders arrive from the airfield. Echo Four has overwatch on Echo One.”
Gina wasn’t worried about Jack. He could handle himself—always had, always would. Sev, though, could only stay tethered for so long before his urge to potshot Leaguers—and by extension, anyone working with them—took hold. She pressed her back to the shelves and slowed her breathing. Steady. Prepare.
The sound of Salvatore’s shoes on the steps changed pitch when they hit the concrete floor at their base.
Gina grasped the sides of the shelving and flipped up, feetfirst, until she faced into the shelves upside down. She held herself aloft, muscles tight, ankles crossed so they wouldn’t waver.
“Anybody’s in here, you better clear out.”
Salvatore was a large shadow below and to her left, ten meters away. She could discern the outline of a gun, not aimed at her, yet. He fumbled with something. A beacon’s beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the closed garage doors.
Gina climbed up the shelves, arms doing all the work, until her legs wrapped around the stairwell’s railing. She twisted midair, straining her midsection and arms, until she grasped the railing with both hands.
Salvatore swung his beacon around, shining it deeper into the garage. The rear doors to the alley gleamed in the golden light. “Last chance to clear out before I call the police!”
Gina suppressed a snort. Judging by the profile Brant had assembled on Salvatore Benson’s life, he would sooner leap out an airlock without a spacesuit into the face of a supernova than contact local law enforcement. If he didn’t bribe them before the call, they were just as likely to find something to arrest him for than they were to chase off any potential intruders.
Not her problem at the moment. She slid over the railing, the soft soles of her suit touching the upper steps. The door hung half-open where Salvatore had slammed it. Gina moved as fast as she dared, making no sound but trying not to creep since she was on a deadline.
Apartment to the left. Office to the right. The apartment’s door was a sliding screen, which was open wide into a room dimly lit by the city’s glow outside. The office? Shut, but the locks were electronic.
Salvatore called out another threat, that time from closer to the back door. Good. He was still searching.
The scanner pulsed where she stood into the apartment. Swinging it toward either door didn’t help narrow her choices. Gina ducked into his apartment.
Nothing but the basics there—bedroom, bathroom, small kitchen, living area in between all three with a huge curving entertainment screen and twin holographic projectors. Food wrappers were scattered on a divan. Gina panned her scanner through the room, but it gave her no indication of Orbita—not even traces.
Scratch one. Next room.
She went back into the hall.
Salvatore’s footsteps and grumbling increased in volume. A glow r
ippled up the stairwell as he reached the bottom.
Blast. Gina opened the office door and slipped inside as Salvatore tromped back upstairs, his irritation evident in the speed and volume of his steps. She closed the door behind her then crouched just beyond its reach, waiting.
Salvatore stopped at the entrance to his apartment. She could see part of his face in the glass, a dark, shadowy frown assessing the situation. She swept her hand to the back of her belt, where the truncheon was clipped. If necessary, a press of a button and she would have a meter-long staff, as slender as her pinky, with a powerpack capable of incapacitating four men at once and variable intensity settings.
Of course, there was also the pocket pistol on her opposite flank. She could shoot him. Then the threat would end. But that wasn’t the mission. Gunplay was a last resort and, for an infiltration, would mean she’d been sloppy. Gina would feel worse about that result than killing Salvatore.
Salvatore turned from the door, hands on his hips. He seemed to consider something, muttering softly, and still wouldn’t go into his apartment. Gina’s right foot shifted. She was ready to spring. He sighed and shook his head, then headed into the other room. The screen slid shut.
Gina exhaled. Finally. Without rising from her crouch, she aimed her scanner into the office. The pulse was quicker, more insistent.
“Echo Two, results indicate there’s a considerable source within a few meters. I’ll route the approximate location to your mask’s visor.”
A red smear appeared on the fringe of her peripheral vision, staining the amber night vision. It was in Salvatore’s desk—or rather, on it, as Gina saw when she stood slowly. Two bundles of Orbita underneath a sheaf of work orders. She lifted the orders with one hand, plucked the bundles with the other, and let the sheaf fall back into place with the gentle drift of autumn leaves.
The visual resurrected her memories of Tagneaux. She wondered if her brothers had improved their lot or were back in jail. Falling in with CDF Intelligence had been her only way out of that dead-end planet. At least she could send Mother a steady stream of income to supplement her regular pay. At times like those, Gina could see why people were lured by the League’s socialist siren song. Who wouldn’t mind having a guaranteed job and food on the table?